Not My Muse
by lefcadio
Summary: Mello x Near. There are a lot of things Mello doesn't want to admit to, and Near has a way of making it worse.


Matt was sick of it.

"_Hey, I'll see you later,"_ he always said - with that half-smile, blond hair falling in front of his eyes, and that gentle shove on the shoulder, hand never lingering.

Unsurprisingly, it was because of Near. It always was.

He just didn't understand why Mello insisted on doing it to himself. What was he trying to prove?

"Near..." Matt had said once, in one of his more poetic moods, "I guess he's like your muse, huh? Always the one driving you, inspiring you to do what you do..."

Mello hadn't replied, but the dark scowl on his face and the clenching of his fists said it all, and he didn't speak to Matt again for the rest of the day.

But it was true.

And so now, Matt watched him go. It had been a few weeks since Mello had taken to disappearing off to Near's room every time they got a paper or assignment back - (apparently, it was to 'compare work', as Mello put it with that dark twist of a smile) - but Matt was more perceptive than people gave him credit for. He _saw_ the fury and frustration on Mello's face every time results came in, and knew him well enough to be aware that Mello was far too proud to want to learn from Near.

So, why, then, when it must be torture?

Because... always, Mello would come back with flushed cheeks, his mouth set in anger, ripped up essay clutched in white-knuckled fists.

Matt hated that he couldn't understand. He hated that, every time, Mello ran to Near, for whatever masochistic reason.

But he knew, as he watched Mello leave him behind once again, that there was nothing he could do.

-------------------------

The first time, Mello had been so, so angry. He'd stormed to Near's room and slammed the heavy door behind him, brandishing his essay viciously.

"Why didn't you tell me!"

Near looked up at him from where he lay sprawled out across the bed, surrounded by the scattered pieces of a model he was building - (stupid, Mello thought, so childish) - and blinked. Mello hated the way he was so pale; beached out and washed out, like a faint grey cloud the sun just couldn't break though. At least it reflected his personality.

"...it was no different. It wasn't important." He picked up another piece then, fitting it to the figure that was growing in his hands.

But oh, how that stung. Mello clenched his fist unconsciously, essay crushed between his fingers. No different. Oh, of course - Near came first _again_, but it doesn't matter to him, because that's what he's used to. It's not _important_, because it doesn't affect Near in the slightest.

Only this time, it was different. Because Near had slipped away, before anyone could ask him his mark. And naturally, the others had assumed he'd been ashamed, and had run to Mello, wanting to know if, maybe this time--

And, stupidly, he'd actually dared to hope. The others had been awed; impressed. They'd crowded around him and showered him with praise - but Mello wasn't listening. There was only one person he wanted to show this to.

But then the teacher had overheard their jubilation and had hurried over, shaking his head. The look in his eyes was one of _pity_, and Mello had felt sick. So he was still second, after all.

And yet Near could lie there, playing, while the pale sunlight filtered down - and Mello didn't _want_ to notice the way it made his hair glow, or the way his bare toes dug into the muted blue of the duvet... but he did anyway, because it was Near, and he couldn't help it.

"...let me see." His voice was thick with frustration, and with an emotion he didn't want to acknowledge.

Because Mello was conflicted, and despised himself for it. Oh, he hated Near vehemently, there was no doubt about that. But Matt's words still rang like a painful truth in his head, and _that_ was why his gaze was still fixed on Near. On those solemn grey eyes that watched him, evaluated him.

He didn't want it to be true. (He didn't need Near, he _didn't--_)

After a moment, Near nodded, pulling himself into a sitting position and leaning down over the other side of the bed to retrieve something. Mello moved a little closer, eyes uncomfortably fixed on the stretch of bare skin that was revealed as the back of Near's shirt rode up.

The bitterness remained. He couldn't stand it to be true; that Near always won fairly, that Near always _deserved_ to win, and yet it was. He grudgingly approached the bed, and accepted the offered essay as Near sat back up.

Halfway through reading, he just let it go and watched it flutter to the floor. Near's had undoubtedly been better; he'd have to be a fool not to see that.

So why, then? Why did he still have this burning desire to surpass Near, to prove himself, when it seemed so impossible? He bit his lip and turned away - but then there were soft fingers gripping his wrist, stopping him from leaving.

_Why?_ Mello wanted to scream, _why did you do it?_ - wanted to rip that hand from his arm and throw that perfect essay back in his face.

But he didn't. Instead, he turned, and let Near tug him towards the bed.

"I don't need your pity," he bit out, voice cold - but among the ice, it was _Near's_ eyes that were warm, and a little sad, looking up at him as though he thought Mello were _worth_ something--

--but this was wrong, because he _didn't_ need anything from Near - stupid, perfect Near - and he didn't know why he was sitting down, or why he was suddenly clutching Near's hand, digging his nails into those faint bones, as though he might disappear at any second.

But that would be okay. Because Mello wouldn't miss him at all. And _without_ Near, Mello would be the best. He'd just work towards... something...

Still, that didn't explain why Near's hands were on him, or why he was retaliating, crawling over him and pushing Near down, until the sunlight couldn't reach him anymore. That was better.

The sharp twist of self-hatred still remained, though, because there was the persistent voice at the back of his head telling him that, even in this, Near was winning.

Because despite everything, Mello wanted it as he pinned down Near's arms and laced their fingers together, wanted it as he bit Near's neck, but loathed that he couldn't bring himself to do it as viciously as Near deserved.

He didn't want to see Near's brightness, or worthiness (or the soft, pale skin of his shoulder as it slipped out of the oh-so-white shirt), yet he did.

When it came to Near, he was weak, and probably always would be. It hurt.

That first time, he'd refused to kiss Near, and had gained an empty satisfaction from the flicker of hurt in those usually calm eyes.

_He'd_ been the one holding Near down, _he'd_ been the one fumbling with Near's trousers, watching his face show more emotion (weakness, it was weakness) than anyone else must have seen, _he'd_ been the one listening to those quiet breathy noises, the sounds that Near couldn't help but let escape.

It should have been his victory. Reducing Near, implacable Near, to this soft, pale boy who moved beneath his rough hands, clutched him desperately and whispered his name.

Afterwards, Mello had been furious with himself. After all his years of struggling, of being second-best, it still came down to this. Him being weak, him losing, all because of Near. Matt had been right all along. But, because Matt was right, Mello couldn't help but continue to try. He hated Near, and although he didn't _want_ to, he needed him as well.

The only satisfaction he gained from this was that now, for whatever twisted reason, Near needed him too.


End file.
